The word unfurled deep in her stomach, and Penelope took a deep breath, trying to settle her roiling emotions.
It did not work.
He moved then, his hand sliding away from her wrist, settling on her hip instead, and in that moment, all of her awareness was focused on that spot, beneath skirts and petticoat and cloak, where she was certain she could feel the searing heat of his massive hand. He did not tighten his grip, did nothing to bring her closer, nothing to move her in one way or another. She knew she could pull away . . . knew she should pull away . . . and yet . . .
She didn’t want to.
Instead, she hovered there, on the brink of something new and different and altogether exciting.
She met his eyes, dark in the firelight, and begged him silently to do something.
But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Play your card, Penelope.”
Her mouth dropped open at the words, at the way he gave her power over the moment, and she realized that it was the first time in her entire life that a man had actually given her the opportunity to make a choice for herself.
Ironic, wasn’t it, that it was this man. This man who had taken all choice from her in the span of mere hours.
But now, there it was, the freedom of which he’d spoken. The adventure he’d promised. The power was heady. Irresistible.
Dangerous.
But she did not care, because it was that wicked, wonderful power that propelled her to speech.
“Kiss me.”
He was already moving, his lips capturing the words.
*
Dear M—
It’s utter misery here—hot as Hades even now, in the dead of night. I’m sure I’m the only one awake, but who can sleep in the worst of a Surrey summer? If you were here, I’m sure we would be mischief-making at the lake.
I confess, I’d like to take a walk . . . but I suppose that’s something young ladies should not do, isn’t it?
Warmly—P
Needham Manor, July 1815
*
Dear P—
Nonsense. If I were there, I would be mischief-making. You would be enumerating all the ways that we would soon be caught and scolded for our transgressions.
I’m not entirely sure what young ladies should or should not do, but your secrets are safe with me, even if your governess does not approve. Especially so.
—M
Eton College, July 1815
It should be said that Penelope Marbury had a secret.
It wasn’t a very big secret, nothing that would bring down Parliament or dethrone the King . . . nothing that would destroy her family or anyone else’s . . . but it was a rather devastating secret personally—one she tried very hard to forget whenever she could.
It should not be a surprise, as, until that evening, Penelope had led a model life—entirely decorous. Her childhood of good behavior had aged into an adulthood of modeling excellent behavior for her younger sisters and behaving in precisely the manner that young women of good breeding were expected to behave.
Therefore, it was the embarrassing truth that, despite the fact that she had been courted by a handful of men and even engaged to one of the most powerful men in England, who seemed to have no problem at all displaying passion when it moved him, Penelope Marbury had never been kissed.
Until then.
It really was ridiculous. She knew that.
It was 1831, for goodness sake. Young ladies were dampening their petticoats and revealing their skin, and she knew from having four sisters that there was nothing at all wrong with a chaste brush of the lips now and then from an avid suitor.
Except it had never happened before, and this did not feel at all chaste.
This felt utterly wicked and not at all like the kind of kiss one received from one’s future husband.
This felt like something one never discussed with one’s future husband.
Michael pulled back just barely, just enough to whisper against her lips. “Stop thinking.”
How did he know?
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it would be rude to ignore his request.
So she gave herself up to it, this strange, new sensation of being kissed, his lips at once somehow both hard and soft, the sound of his breath harsh against her cheek. His fingertips stroking delicately, whisper-soft, along the column of her neck, tilting her chin to better access her mouth. “Much better.”
She gasped as he realigned his lips to hers and robbed her of thought with a single, shocking . . . wicked . . . wonderful caress.
Was that his tongue?
It was . . . gloriously stroking along the seam of her closed lips, coaxing her open, then it seemed he was consuming her, and she was more than willing to allow it. He traced a slow path of fire along her lower lip, and Penelope wondered if it was possible for someone to go mad from pleasure.
Surely not every man kissed like this . . . else women would get nothing done.
He pulled back. “You’re thinking again.”
She was. She was thinking he was magnificent. “I can’t help it.” She shook her head, reaching for him.
“Then I am not doing it correctly.”
Oh dear. If he kissed her any more correctly, her sanity would be threatened.
Perhaps it already was.